Saraswatink

White and Blue.

I’m just a passer-by calling you a colour, sister.

Your eyes grit from the night cries.

You sit on a rough-sleeper’s pit.

The stench of that bench coincides with the slow morning rise and the early bird runners but you were there first.

White and Blue.

The space inhabited by your silence. I can’t sit by you.

I hurry on with my own baby cries and the length of the night in my eyes. Mindless daze and cold coffee haze. Books – fuzzy spines on the shelves left unread. Storylines melting on my window like sleet, half winter, half spring.

Clawing at the wind.